


Duck Test

by waferkya



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Pre-Slash really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it looks like a bunch of bored children on a schooltrip, and it acts like a bunch of bored children on a schooltrip, then it probably is the Spanish NT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duck Test

“Two words,” Cesc says, and he is awarded with a slipper that hits him right on the hip. “Hey!”

Gerard, who of course is the one who threw the damn thing, rolls his eyes. “You’re not supposed to _speak_ , moron. That’s like, the entire point of the game.”

Cesc sticks out his tongue at him. “Shut up,” he says, and dodges the second deadly slipper-bullet with an entirely manly squeal. “Oh my god, stop throwing things at me!”

“Not things,” Gerard says, because tonight he decided to be a bigger pain in the ass than usual. “Just my flip-flops.”

“Yeah, well,” Cesc runs a hand through his hair. “As I was saying—shut up, Geri—it’s two words.”

Xabi has not looked up from his phone once in the past hour; he doesn’t mind being rude, he says, because he’s surrounded by children and his worst behavior is still better than any of theirs.

He does raise his eyes now, however, and glances very briefly at Cesc before saying, “Harry Potter.”

Cesc’s face falls so fast he almost hurts himself.

“Fuck you, Alonso,” he mumbles. “You know how long I was waiting for this?”

Xabi gives him a tiny, unconcerned shrug, the corner of his mouth curling up slightly, but good luck trying to guess if it’s because of whatever he’s looking at on that damn phone of his, or if he simply loves killing Cesc’s mood so much.

“Who are you talking to anyway?” Cesc asks, trying to buy himself some time to think of another movie to mime. “Because you’re texting, right? You’re not, like—”

“Watching porn?” Gerard chimes in, sounding interested, and he even cranes his neck to try and catch a glimpse of Xabi’s phone.

“No porn in my room,” Iker calls out from his big, ugly armchair—there’s been one of these old, ratty, grandpa-y things in every single hotel they’ve ever stayed at; Cesc strongly suspects Iker has them delivered, but at least it’s not a rocking chair.

Cesc and Gerard roll their eyes in perfect synchrony. “You are no fun.”

“Good,” Iker mumbles. “We’re not here to have fun.”

Sergio makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “Clearly, seeing how we’re playing fucking _charades_.”

“Hey, charades are awesome,” Gerard protests, then his face melts into a huge, dopey grin as he says, “Don’t you rain on my charades, dude.”

Xabi snorts. Cesc still hasn’t come up with any suitable movie; all he can think about is doing _Pretty Woman_ just pointing at Iker, but even he realizes it might be a little too cryptic.

“I just don’t get why can’t we play card games, like any other normal team on the face of Earth,” Sergio whines. “I’m sure they’re playing cards in Xavi’s room, with my little bird.” He nudges Iker’s thigh with his toe, but Iker looks utterly unfazed—just very, very tired.

“Card games?” Cesc repeats, his eyebrows running up his forehead to chat up his hairline. “What, like _la pocha_? Sorry to break it to you but this is no basketball team, Ser.”

“Don’t say that out so loud, you’ll make Geri cry,” Xabi comments, the smug bastard. Then he does stop typing for a second, and he actually tears his eyes away from the phone to glance at Sergio. “And you, please, drop this little bird nonsense. It’s creepy.”

Sergio’s yelp of indignation is drowned by Gerard, Cesc and Iker saying together, “Agreed.”

“Assholes,” Sergio mutters, and he crosses his arms on his chest, but he doesn’t move, not a millimeter, from where he’s sitting on the floor, bracketed in Iker’s white chicken-legs.

“Okay,” Cesc says, flailing just a little. “I got a new movie.”

“We’re _still playing_?”

“Shut up, Sergio, or you’re skipping your turn.”

“I don’t want a turn!”

Cesc glares at him. Cesc’s glares are the stuff of legend, rare as fuck, not like Super Saiyans— _actual_ doesn’t-happen-very-often-but-when-it-does,-oh-boy-you’d-better-run shit. Sergio shuts up. Iker chuckles, ever so slightly, and takes enough pity on him that he even drops a hand to pet his hair.

Cesc tips his head left and right, neck cracking, and shakes his arms in waves, loosening his elbows and wrists. He’s got this.

He signals—two words—because since Gerard is out of slippers, he might find more dangerous ammunition to throw at him. Like his pants. Not that Cesc hasn’t had a chance to get up close and personal with Gerard’s pants in the past, but they never had an audience.

Anyways.

He makes circles with his index fingers, close to his face but not too obvious. Gerard scowls.

“Nipples?” he says, hugging his knee. “I don’t know any movies with nipples, are we still guessing movies?” Cesc nods, and Gerard’s frown gets a bit deeper. “Okay, so—oh, is it rings? Lord of the Rings, Lord of the Rings!”

“That’s like, five billion words, and he said it’s two,” Sergio says, because he’s been paying attention. Cesc fights back a grin. Nobody can resist charades.

“Right,” Gerard mumbles. Cesc is still doing circles. “Oh my God, enough with the not-nipples thing, Cesky, try something else.”

For a brief second, Cesc weighs the possibility of getting offended. He’s the charade master after all, Geri is barely an apprentice, so it’s very inappropriate, not to mention rude of him to bark orders—but Cesc, as all great masters before him, is also extremely wise, and he values peace before everything else.

He nods, just slightly, and then mimes the act of waving something in the air, in slow, smooth, pointed movements. That wrist stretching did wonders to his flexibility.

“Uhm, are you—are you painting?” Gerard asks; Cesc doesn’t answer, because that would be against the rules. Gerard bites his thumbnail. “Jesus, this is hard. Can I phone a friend for help?”

Cesc cracks up and giggles. “Do I look like Carlos Sobera?”

Gerard purses his lips and wobbles his head around like he’s actually thinking about it; Cesc’s hand is still swimming around in pretty curves, and he ends that flourish with a sharp stab at the air. Gerard smiles, soft and wide, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You don’t look like him at all,” he promises. Cesc nods, still pouting slightly.

“Christ, get a room,” Sergio mumbles.

“You realize where it is that you’re sitting, right?” Iker teases him, tugging at his earlobe. Sergio looks up, scrunching up his face to convey the message of _you should back me up, asshole, they’re mushy and disgusting and you and me are totally not_.

Iker’s smirk says, _except we totally are_.

“Do you want some space?” Xabi asks, rather blithely.

“Oh! Is it Star Trek?!” Gerard shouts. Cesc shakes his head. “Star _Wars_ , then!”

There’s a knock on the wall behind Cesc, and from the next room Raúl says, “It’s still Harry Potter!”

**Author's Note:**

> Carlos Sobera was the host of the Spanish version of _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?_ and this fic is pointless because that's how I roll. :D


End file.
